Wylda
by Tara Walden
Summary: She is free to come and go as she pleases and exercises this right all the time so he does not think upon her absence.


**First off, HUGE thank you to Dickonfan who gave me all kinds of advice and proofing on this story. That helped me out more than anyone could ever hope to guess.**

**Second, this is set a few years before the knights are supposed to be released from service so... Yeah... Thought that would be a good thing to know.**

**Well... Hope everyone enjoys. ^_^**

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He hasn't seen her in a few days, but it isn't that unusual for her to go missing for several days at a time. Unlike him, she is free to fly wherever she chooses, free of Romans, Woads, and well-meaning brothers who unintentionally annoy him at times. Of course, the 'unintentional' doesn't make their questioning after his welfare any less annoying, but that's how brothers are, annoying.

Nonetheless, she is free to come and go as she pleases and exercises this right all the time so he does not think upon it.

But then an entire week passes and when he is alone in his quarters, when his brothers are not depending on him, his thoughts drift to her. He is starting to be concerned. Usually she would have returned by now, even if only briefly before leaving again. Had she finally tired of their friendship?

He pushes the thoughts from his mind, not wanting to focus on the matter, and continues his usual, daily routines. He does this so well that none of the knights have the slightest inkling that something is wrong with their scout—he is silent and imposing as he always is, after all.

It is only when he is alone in his quarters, away from their eyes, that he worries.

Something does not feel right about this absence. Something feels… off. Normally he does not worry after her, but this time… this time he is, and that in itself gives him reason to worry and toss and turn in his sleep.

One night, as he is leaving the tavern after yet _another_ brawl had broken out between Lancelot and the Romans over lost money, he hears a faint noise. Intrigued and curious, he stops and listens, straining his ears to hear the noise again.

He stands, waiting, for several more minutes before deciding that his ears had been playing tricks on him. Yet, just as he begins to walk off, he hears the noise again and there is no mistaking it this time. The faint noise sounds angry, tired, and hurt.

Without thinking, he goes into his scout mindset, tracking the sound. He has to stop every now and then to get his bearings, wait for the noise again but eventually, he reaches the end of an alleyway. He recognizes this alley as one of several that leads into the small, open courtyard which had been all but forgotten when the tavern opened.

Hugging the wall, he can hear hushed voices, and once more, he strains to hear, only catching fragments of what is being said.

"We got… this time."

"Has he… I wonder… think he would after all… It is his…"

"You'd think. Maybe he is…"

"Maybe we should cook it?"

One, obviously more than a little drunk, laughs boisterously and exclaims.

"After all the trouble we went to catching the scout's damn hawk, we're not going to cook it. Thing nearly scratched my eyes out. It's about as wild as its master, I'd say. Have you seen him sit there and talk to it? Speaks to it as if it is his best friend or something. No, we won't cook it…. We'll take it to the tavern and kill it in front of him!"

As loud laughing erupts from the voices' owners, Tristan's eyes widen in shock at what he heard. All this time… She had not chosen not to return… She had been unable to… All this time… She had needed his help and…

He does not even have time to finish the thought as he is overcome by rage. He steps out from the shadows of the alley and stands in the open courtyard, waiting.

There are the Roman guards, almost a dozen of them, sitting around the fountain, and on the fountain sits a cage, and in the cage….

As soon as his presence is realized by one of the Romans Tristan attacks. His calm, practiced control shatters even before the night air is shattered by his loud, angry battle cry.

In a moment, he is among them, fighting viciously for his friend. Several bystanders who had seen it would later liken him to a crazed demon or call him the god of death, yet he does not hit to kill; he hits to make them suffer. They had hurt one of the few things precious to him. His friend. And for that, they would pay dearly.

The Roman soldiers fight to defend themselves, but the rage of the usually impassive scout is withering. No one, not even the most experienced among them, can withstand his fury. He is as they had always pictured the demons spoken of in the Bible. His screams ring in their ears, vicious, horrible yells.

One by one, he takes them down, inflicting as much damage as possible without killing them. In his blind rage, he does not realize that someone approaches until strong arms have wrapped under his shoulders and hands come to lock behind his neck, not allowing him to move his head.

He thrashes and yells, partially in Latin and partially in his native tongue, fighting the grip even as his captor lifts him enough that his feet no longer touch the ground.

"Grab his legs!" yells a familiar voice. Dagonet.

Still, he does not stop struggling, despite a strong set of arms wrapping tightly around both his legs, trying their best to restrain him. Even with the unbelievable weight on his legs, he continues to fight them, so much so that more help must be summoned.

"Strong devil!" exclaims another familiar voice. "Gawain get down 'ere and help me hold his legs still. He's either goin' ta hurt himself or Dag and me!" Almost immediately, more weight is on his legs.

He cannot struggle as much now, though he still tries even as another voice reaches him.

"Bors, what's going on?"

" 'nora, stay back! He's lost 'is mind right now," Bors yells and even with Gawain's help, he has to continue to fight the scout. Who knew the lithe man, so much smaller in build than himself, had such strength?

To Bors' dismay, Vanora does not listen— when does she ever, after all?— and she steps toward them, leaning over Gawain and Bors to reach Tristan. She hunches over a little, trying to look at him beyond his messy hair that completely hides his face in its current disarray.

Suddenly, two hands are on either side of his face and he is looking at her. Recognizing who it is in front of him, he has to consciously force himself to stop struggling. He would never hurt Vanora no matter what the circumstances. And so he stops struggling and his wild angry yelling slowly subsides to mumbling.

Vanora gasps and looks to the knights.

"Put 'im down," she orders, not taking her eyes from Tristan's face.

"Van, 'ave you lost your bloody mind?"

"Do as I tell ya, Bors."

They cannot miss hearing the troubled note in her voice. They exchange glances between the three of them but do as she says.

As soon as they release him, the scout sinks to his knees, his head still bowed. The adrenaline-fueled rage is gone, and his seemingly superhuman exertion has taken its toll on him.

The three knights seem puzzled at the scout's sudden lack of interest in attacking the Romans, but Vanora simply kneels down in front of Tristan and, to Bors' surprise and concern, hugs him as she would one of her own children.

Vanora and Tristan have, over the years, developed a special friendship. Sometimes, when the mood strikes him to do so, he will tell her stories of Sarmatia. Sometimes, they are stories of battle, though he always censors what he says to her on this matter. Sometimes, they will just sit in companionable silence in the early hours of the morning at the tavern where he comes to eat his breakfast before leaving for a scouting mission.

Not seeming to be bothered in the slightest by Vanora's presence, he continues to mumble almost incoherently in his own language. They all listen carefully, the knights hoping to be able to decipher at least a few words of the scout's language that might be similar to their own. Each knight speaks a different dialect based upon where their tribe is located, and Tristan's language, of course, has to be the most different of all of them.

They remain puzzled for several more moments before Dag crouches down beside Vanora and Tristan. He puts a gentle hand on Tristan's shoulder but quickly removes it upon the scout inhaling sharply. Obviously, he had kept a firmer hold on his smaller-built friend than he had thought. Either that or the man's struggling against those who had been attempting to restrain him had caused the injury.

"Tristan. What's wrong?"

Tristan continues to mumble in his own language— maybe forgetting in his current state of mind that no one but him speaks it— but one word catches Dagonet's attention.

"Wylda."

Dagonet's face darkens and he looks around until his eyes fall on the area where the Roman soldiers had been standing. There, on the edge of the fountain, sits a crudely constructed wooden cage and inside, Wylda.

The creature looks so hungry and tired in the cage, so small and powerless—nothing at all like Tristan's strong, proud companion that watches over them from the clouds. Yet, the way that she seems to look worriedly at Tristan being practically cradled by Vanora, he knows that it must indeed be her.

Without a word, Dagonet stands and stalks over to the fountain and the cage.

"Don't worry, girl. I'll get you out of here," he whispers to the hawk. She tilts her head as if asking him '_how'_ and he almost understands how Tristan can carry on conversations with the creature.

Seeing the lock on the door and not wanting to bother finding which Roman has the key, the giant knight puts one hand on one wooden bar and the other hand on the one beside it and pulls, effectively snapping the flimsy wood.

He drops the pieces of the cage that are in his hands and then slowly, so as not to startle her, he holds his arm out to the creature.

Wylda tilts her head to the side once more, probably looking at him to determine whether this giant of a man is all right. She had seen him before. The big, tall knight that her friend had called Dagonet. What had Tristan said about him? That Dagonet is a good brother? Yes, that had been it.

Having thus remembered Tristan's words, she warily steps down onto the knight's arm and he slowly begins walking back to where Vanora and Tristan are still as they were when he left.

He reaches them and then kneels beside them once more.

"Tristan," Dagonet calls gently. The scout doesn't look up but he stops mumbling so the giant knight tries once more. "Tristan. Someone wants to see you."

After a moment, the scout turns his attention to Dagonet and, seeing who sits on his arm, the corner of his mouth almost tips up into a small smile.

He holds out his arm and the bird hops from Dagonet to Tristan who proceeds to stroke her feathers and whisper so softly to her that only she can possibly hear his words.

The knights watch as the hawk reaches out with her beak and gently tugs on one of the scout's braids as if to chide him for taking his time in coming to her aid, and a ghost of a smile flits across the man's face.

"Come on, Tristan," Vanora begins. "Let's get you to your room, alright? Bors, you go with Tristan and I'll bring Wylda some dried meat. Poor girl looks half-starved. "

As silently as he is known for, he stands and begins to walk in the direction of his room, Vanora and Bors not far behind him.

On the other hand, Gawain and Dagonet stay where they are, watching as the Romans start to sit up. Most of them had decided early on that it was better to fall and stay down than to get back up and become fair game once more. A few of them had not been as clever, sporting several deep gashes that would surely scar, hopefully, become infected.

The two knights cannot help but exchange amazed glances. Even completely out of his mind with rage, the scout was meticulous. Most men in their fury would have simply killed all involved, yet their scout had maintained the presence of mind to restrain himself from that which would have led to his execution upon its discovery. It is this thought that leads Gawain's mind to another dilemma.

"You all will speak of this to no one. Understand? I would _hate_ for you all to be punished for stupidity. Oh! And just a warning," says Gawain, "The next time you think it necessary to bother our scout, don't."

Dagonet glowers darkly as he towers far above them. "And if you ever touch that hawk again, we'll let him finish what he started."

Having thus warned the Romans, they depart and begin to follow the three that left before them.

Even when they catch up to the group, nary a word is spoken. Nothing needs to be said, because their feathered comrade, their sister of sorts, is safe and that is all that matters.

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**Again, thank you to Dickonfan. **

**What did everyone think? I'd love to hear what you have to... type. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**


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